


Brothers In Arms

by Vanetti (lereya)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - World War I, Anal Sex, Angst, Fluff, Gun Violence, M/M, Oral Sex, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Resolved Sexual Tension, Smut, Unresolved Romantic Tension, War, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 06:38:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4009651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lereya/pseuds/Vanetti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On his wedding day, John Watson reflects on his past with Major James Sholto.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fleetwood_mouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleetwood_mouse/gifts).



> NOTE: This is a World War I alternate universe fic. As such, some liberties have been taken with the geographic locations of where John was stationed to make them more historically accurate.
> 
> Please see the end for full Author's Notes.

_1926, London._

Neither of them had been the first. Holmes actually seemed surprised by the fact of it; my bride, however, had resigned herself to it long before the subject of Major James Sholto had ever been broached. After all, she had been neither the first, nor the second. Truly, Mary Morstan had not even been the third person in my life for whom I felt an immeasurable affection. I was careful to avoid giving her the illusion that she had captured my heart in a unique way, and she had been kind enough not to press the matter.

Sherlock Holmes was a different sort of entity. He had always fancied himself an exception, though he would be loathe to admit that he put the matter to any level of consideration at all. It was imperative, I realised, to eschew the subject of James Sholto altogether in order to keep my companion’s mercurial temperament at bay.

I knew that he would accept my invitation. Mary was dubious, and with good reason, but no one’s understanding of the Major was as deep and intimate as my own. I had honestly barely heard the woman utter to my constant companion in his shock, “Neither of us was the first, you know.” By that moment, I was enraptured by the grand presence of the only person in the world, mistress or swain, that I felt necessary to keep hidden from Holmes.

Major James Sholto. My forbidden life. My first and most private love of all.

 

* * *

 

_1916, France._

In my younger years, I was known amongst my infantry as a rake and a jester, and I was well favoured by most who had the pleasure of my acquaintance. I do not describe myself this way to gain a pleasing reputation presently; rather, I hope to accurately illustrate the divergence of personality that can be regrettably attributed to the perils of war.  It was this man, this prankster with a reputation for virility that preceded him on three separate continents, that the good Major first encountered.

The facts of our meeting would later become a source of much amusement between us in our more intimate moments.  Soldiers and stevedores alike were bathing after a tiresome night watch in which precious little actually happened; excepting, of course, the consumption of almost all of the plonk in our rations, which led to intoxicated tomfoolery and the derision of one another’s physicality. The camaraderie shared amongst men who have seen such horrors as those forced upon us is impossible to describe in any meaningful way to those who have blessed ignorance, and so I shan’t attempt to do so.

Though the crisper features have long since been robbed from me by the wine, I can say with some confidence where I was when Major Sholto arrived at our camp. I was standing in the midst of our regiment, allowing the arid climate to see to any residual droplets of water from my body and singing a ballad praising my own endowments. I was oblivious to the shift of the energy of the camp by the arrival of the newcomer in our midst; my mind was rather preoccupied with commanding my vocabulary to produce a word most fitting to rhyme with ‘todger’.  The din died quickly, though I hadn’t the presence of mind to notice that yet, either, and I had completed an entire additional stanza after Sholto’s entrance before it struck me that the mirth and merriment had dissipated.  He was the only man in full dress and full sobriety, and his rucksack hung heavily on his broad shoulders.  

Quickly, I covered myself with my hands. My face had the flush of intoxication, but also of discomfiture; I did not know this strange man, though I would have known him to be the Major immediately, had I simply recalled the telegram sent earlier in the week announcing his arrival into our midst. The other soldiers had scattered with impressive dexterity to clothe themselves, leaving me standing quite alone and quite nude to greet my new superior.  I shifted from one foot to the other, and I could not bring myself to meet the gaze of the man. He seemed statuesque in his stoicism, without even the slightest of redistribution of weight from his rucksack as he stood before me. I felt that he was anticipating a similar act of modesty from me that he had seen from the rest of his men. However, I had consumed the lion’s share of the bitter wine in our rations, and even shifting my own body’s weight was cumbersome.

Finally, there was movement. It was deft and quick, and Major Sholto had removed a jar from his rucksack and hauled the thing back onto his shoulders in a graceful movement. “It would appear that I wasn’t invited to your soiree,” he said, and it was only after he spoke that his face finally cleared, and a smile graced his countenance. “Tell me, were you not expecting me? I was informed that a telegram was sent to Captain Watson to announce my assignment.”

“Ah!” I nodded. The recognition of a typical conversation caused me to forget my own indecency. “But I am Captain Watson! Major Sholto, I presume.” I boldly took a step forward and then offered the most sophisticated salute that an inebriated man could have mustered. I was truly rather proud of my ability to conduct myself so professionally under the current circumstance. That misconception was immediately disproven as Major Sholto’s eyes swept down to that which had been exposed in my flourished salute, and an eyebrow twitched in amusement once his gaze settled back upon my face.

“Perhaps you would like to join your men in modesty, Watson,” he suggested lightly, and I believe that I must have nodded, though there is every probability that I simply made my shamed retreat with no acknowledgement. Once Major Sholto had made his presence known, most had retired for the evening; a few stayed on, smoking cigarettes and playing cards on tables fashioned from crates that had been left behind. Upon my return to the Major, he had shed his rucksack, sat upon the earth, and opened the jar to enjoy its contents whilst he observed the night sky.

He was a man who might have been as comfortable at a garden party as he was in a foreign country torn by war. His face wore an expression of peace, despite the necessity for his presence, and as he took a sip from his jar, he seemed to be contemplating the constellations, and not considering combat at all. I was immediately drawn to him; now dressed, I was able to join him in his abstract conjecture on the cosmos, if that was indeed what he was doing.

The jar was no mystery to me. Any soldier would have been able to spot it immediately. In the trenches, the jars full of rum were more colloquially referred to as SRD, and more often than not labeled as such. ‘Seldom Reaches Destination.’ Like the soldiers who drank it, it was known that the stuff was in high demand, and copiously dispatched. We sat in silence, Sholto and I, for a long moment before he finally spoke again. “I would offer you a nip, but I rather suspect that you’ve had your fill for the evening.”

I laughed. “A fine observation,” I said, and finally, I relaxed. “Though I know my standing well enough to oblige you your indulgence before you turn in on your first night.”

“Tell me about your men,” he answered, taking only one more sip before returning the jar’s cap to its lip. He was forgiving of human nature, and yet he seemed impervious to it. His eyes pierced through my muddled vision, a clear and light blue that I found immediately fetching. The impropriety of such thoughts would invade, along with a rather severe headache, in the morning. That evening, however, emboldened with drink and already quite weary enough of heavy mental burdens, I found myself content to allow kind eyes to comfort my very soul.

I nodded toward three men, who were huddled around a crate, playing a spirited game of poker in which one soldier was being accused of cheating, but only in jest, by the other two. “Private Jones is in his second year of service already,” I explained. “The one with the glasses – that’s Private Pearson – is on his first tour. He has yet to experience anything that would have him drinking an SRD instead of indulging in a deck of cards.” I peered more carefully at Private Pearson, and an ache gripped my chest as I watched him laugh with an innocence that I found myself feigning on more occasions than experiencing honestly. “And the lad with the moustache is Lieutenant Perry.”

Sholto nodded. It was apparent to me instantly that he was not a man who made judgments without the gravity that they deserved. “Yes,” he said, his expression unreadable. “I suppose that you could call that a moustache.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good men go to war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: This is the chapter that has a bit of war violence in it. Tread lightly.

War is an experience that can best be described as large swaths of abject boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror.  It was during the former occasions that I came to know James Sholto, and he came to know me. James Sholto was an only child, whose father was a decorated war hero himself. Much was left a mystery about his mother; she sighed her last breath as James drew in his very first. It is unknown whether or not she had been afforded the privilege of hearing her son’s robust cries before she died.

He enjoyed the moments in which I would regale him with tales of my own family, though I never quite understood the interest in my sister’s antics, or my parents’ lackluster professions. James was exquisitely intelligent. Most facts about my rearing and tutelage were ascertained without my explicit exposition; this left ample opportunity for my pontification on my circumstance, without the need for me to explain my position. It was refreshing, I found, and our conversations escalated to the philosophical within mere weeks.

It had been three weeks since our enemy had made any sort of move. It is never wise to let one’s guard down in the trenches, but to understand warfare is to understand the abstruse nature of human existence. It was not unheard of for alliances to form amongst the men who were meant to be nemeses. Rations were shared; tossed across lines and gathered in moments of truce, a hearty meal or a bit of tobacco to calm the nerves were treated as treasures. After all, were not all men created equal? Were we not all, German or Briton, longing for our beds, our wives, our children? The shape of the mind changes in the trenches in ways innumerable. Such was our existence in the summer of 1916.

The day was hot and bright, and positively droll. My thighs protested my crouched position, though after three hours in the trench, I had become adept at ignoring them. We were on watch for another four hours, and James made the most of the boredom by learning more about Private Pearson, who was to his immediate left, though the short conversations would invariably be abandoned for more questions about myself.

“What’s your favourite type of tea?” “What do you miss the most about home?” “What marks did you get in school?” Tirelessly, James would ask me for details about my life, and I was happy to provide them, as it afforded me the luxury of thinking of anything but the war in which we were quite literally and figuratively entrenched. I had been presently describing my former tutor, Nancy, in an attempt to stave off mental atrophy.

She had been an older woman, but kind; she never made me feel inadequate for getting marks that were on the lower end of average. I had given every subject my diligence, I explained to James, as I had the burning desire to advance in my studies well enough to become a medical doctor. It was through the unfortunate circumstance of being unable to fund a higher education at an accredited university that gave me the idea, and the plan, to join the ranks of the RAMC. I could help people, I reasoned, as well as learning and honing my craft of medicine, about which I am truly very passionate.

A loud bang off to my right interrupted my anecdote. A call to attack had been made upon our line, and life sprang into our men as if they had been shocked into it. It had been a potato-masher that had done it: a stick grenade, launched from the other side, and our call to arms had been answered with every man shouldering his gun and firing off multiple rounds at once. The former peace of the charred landscape was now utter ruckus, with machine-gun pops punctuating the air at such a rapid pace that only the orders barked the loudest could be heard at all.

I heard a series of deafening bangs immediately to my left, and my heart leapt into my throat at the meaning of it. James’s face was wide, shock upon it, and I was sure that he had been hit. Instantly, I grabbed him, searching for the wound, but he pushed me and scrambled out of the way to reveal that Pearson had been struck by a number of bullets to his arm and chest. I directly pushed myself down to treat him with no harm to myself, searching for the sources of the holes that littered his body.

It was hopeless. The arm was ruined; I knew from looking at it that once Pearson was taken to the CCS, it would be amputated, and thus I ignored it for the more pressing injury to his chest. Stretcher-bearers wouldn’t provide relief until the bulk of the firefight was over, and I knew that I had to act quickly to preserve his life. There was a gaping wound at his pulmonary trunk, caused by a splattering of bullets from the accursed machine-gun. That, I knew, would need to be debrided promptly, and I began my work.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brothers in arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: This is where the smut lives. So, there's that.

Three days had passed since the attack, and most of my brigade was indulging in time at rest. I engrossed myself with a project for my sister, Harriet, in which I was fashioning a flower-vase from an abandoned shell casing. She might find it morbid, but such practises were commonplace, and I was rather enjoying myself in my tent when I was approached by James.

“Captain Watson,” he announced, though it was superlative. His presence was magnetic, and we had found ourselves so close in the trenches that even in our moments of rest, I could recognise James’s very attendance without looking. “Faring well?”

“How’s Pearson?”

James nodded and sat upon my cot. “The arm’s off.”

“I knew it to be so.”

“His other wounds are healing well. You saved his life.” I scoffed. I knew then that James had come to placate me, and it angered me further. My hand slipped at its task, and the shell casing went clattering to the ground.

“Bloody thing…” I lifted my gaze to James’s countenance, and upon witnessing the sympathy in it, I felt my resolve to exhibit bravado weakening, and my shoulders sagged. “How is it possible to cope?” I asked. It was, to date, the most honest conversation that I had attempted on the subject of the war itself. “What am I expected to do, or to think? I saved Pearson’s life, but he’ll be discharged presently, leaving a limb behind in a foreign country. And not only that. The Pearson who arrived was laid to rest with the arm; he is forever changed now.” I shook my head. “And for what?”

“For valor.” James and I had been so physically close in the past weeks that there was no concept of personal space between us; as we sat, our thighs and shoulders met, and we thought nothing the poorer of it. He leant down to pick up my half-crafted vase, and when he handed it to me, his eyes were kind. “Captain, you performed swiftly and carefully. Your wit and knowledge saved his life, when a lesser man – a lesser doctor – might have been unable to do so under similar circumstances.”

I was silent for many moments. As many as three minutes may have passed as I considered the flower-vase, lamely fiddled with it, and avoided the warm and captivating gaze of James Sholto. I had no secrets in my heart. I knew my affection for what it was, but it was unacceptable, in this or any other condition, and so it was that I pushed the consideration for my colleague down into the pit of my gut in favour of finishing my paltry craft.

“Is this for Harriet?” James reached over then, and he brushed his fingers, stout as they were, against the delicate rim of the transformed shell casing. I nodded. “Something so beautiful, turned from something so vile,” he observed. I nodded again, and my concentration was solely upon steadying my beating heart. “It’s poetry in a flower-vase. You’re a good man, Captain Watson.”

“I know nothing of that,” I answered. There was a slight tremor in my timbre that I hoped would go unnoticed. “I simply wished to occupy my mind with something less macabre, and you were nowhere to be found.”

The confession left my lips unfettered, and once it had escaped, I finally looked to James. I had hoped to discern whatever damage my words may have caused to our camaraderie; the words were too candid, and the implication too bare. I was surprised, then, to find that his expression matched my own – no, even encouraged it. He smiled, and I calmed. “Quite right, Watson,” he said with a nod, and then he stood to take his leave. “I would be most happily obliged to accommodate you, should you wish to occupy your mind in the future with a bit less detriment to those hands.” It was true that my labour of love and distraction had left a number of nicks and scratches to my fingers, and my face flushed once James had pointed it out. “After all,” he added, already turned to leave me and speaking over his shoulder, “the hands of healing are perhaps the most important of all the hands of war.”

* * *

 

There are myriad accounts of soldiers who have found comfort in the arms of their fellow men. War is a lonely business, and the occasional dalliance was often observed, but never spoken of. A soldier lives in two realities simultaneously: the one to which every civilian is privy, and the private, specific dynamic of brothers-in-arms. That reality is one that must be solely experienced and cannot possibly be described.

My liaison with James Sholto was not such an affair. I would have been content to spend the rest of my days in his constant company, even in the actuality that no one could know but the both of us. After our unspoken acknowledgment of interest, there was a shift in the very dynamic of our interaction. Glances became gazes. The brushing of fingers became the fondling of them. It was organic in its development; truly, I already felt so emotionally enamoured that it seemed a simple thing to express my affection physically. While I found the necessity for secrecy frustrating, it was worth all of the inconvenience to share my bed with James on no fewer than three nights in a week. Being careful around our regiment was a priority that became less and less over the following days, and to my delight and surprise, few disapproved, and no one voiced a negative opinion outright. This would be unacceptable, in the eyes of the British Royal Army, of course. However, the British Royal Army wasn’t watching. Left alone on foreign soil, no one was watching. James was my comfort. I was in love.

Our eyes had adjusted rather well to the darkness in the better part of an hour that we had shared together on that night. I watched with deep interest as my fingers laced comfortably in between his own. Covered only in a thin sheet, our bodies intertwined in our lazy afterglow underneath it, and we were both grinning as our joined hands became the most precious sight to the pair of us.

“It isn’t right,” he remarked, “for a being to exude such perfection.”

I snatched my hand away in jest and turned to press my nude form against his. “You wouldn’t say such things to one who didn’t give you such pleasure.” He feigned an appalled expression, and then the tables of power turned; I was on my back without warning, and it was only then that I allowed myself to touch the perfect face that scrutinised my own with unbridled adulation.

“I would,” he insisted. I’ll never forget the weight of him upon me. For many years after that evening, I would bring myself to pleasure considering it. His lips pressed to mine, and then trailed down to my jaw. “You’re a bombazine doll. I only wish to carry you around with me, to enjoy at my leisure.”

“I do not think it a healthy dynamic,” I said. “This is far better.” We were both such young men, in those days past, and the act which now serves as a fine sleeping draught to this older body only increased my ardour in that moment. We had already known each other once that evening, but it wasn’t beyond conception to enjoy our bodies together again, and when James’s hands explored my naked flesh, it was agreed that we both wanted another connection.

The brushings of our lips became less careful, and far more sure, as our hands coaxed each other to unfurl. We were ignited underneath one another’s touch, and my chest ached from the wanton moans that I was forced to quell. Our heavy and clashing breaths were the only sounds allowed in the dark camp as we fell together. It was not clumsy; we were so enraptured that our carnal choreography was innate. My shaking hand lifted but for a moment to my tongue to drench it before reaching back down to soothe James’s path to breach me.

I always took great care to ensure his pleasure, along with my own; the necessities of a civilian life became privileges in the war, and such was the matter of palliating any discomfort from the body’s aversion to that which our minds and hearts desired so adamantly. We broke away from lavishing one another with our mouths to watch closely as we both spoke with our bodies. His eyes pierced into mine as he offered a tick of a nod, along with a suggestive push of his girth to beg entrance. I sighed.  I relaxed. I closed my eyes, and in lieu of a nod, I granted permission by way of pressing my eager fingertips to the swell of his flexed and waiting muscles behind, waiting so patiently between my legs.

The burn was familiar, and the discomfort welcome. My breath hitched as I calmed my trembling body to accept him. “Is it alright?” he whispered, and this time, my nod was sure. I pushed against him, and I willed myself to open my eyes. James hovered above me, tall and strong. My protector.  I watched as his head bowed, and I gasped and shivered as a healthy stream of spittle fell from his mouth to further soothe that blessed bond between us.

The change was instantaneous. Pain was no longer a concern, and only pleasure remained. This time would be quick; we had far less time before we would be expected to stir from our own respective beds. James’s skin was damp with the sweat of exertion as he worked himself inside of me. I wanted to beg; I longed to cry out for more, to implore him to take me fully. I was not allowed. Instead, I gasped, and one hand perched on his side to further guide him for more, while the other made quick work of my own arousal to bring myself to pleasure.

It became obvious within moments that James would find his bliss within me if he didn’t cease his rougher thrusting, and when he withdrew without warning, I was left empty and wanting. A few errant strokes were the only thing necessary for both of us, and then I was spilling over my own knuckles, even as James was doing the same.  My body became tense, and my lungs ached from the breaths and words held inside. How I had longed for him to find his bliss within me, for me to find my own within him. The imperative of our secrecy, however, forced this to be the only way. I had become rather accustomed to making use of a scrap of clothing that would be later washed, and it would seem that tonight would follow the trend.

I was surprised, then, when James leaned down, only lingering to a chaste kiss for a moment on my lips, before laving his tongue along my abdomen to divest me of any evidence of our coupling. “James!” I whispered harshly. “That’s unnecessary..” I sighed again. His tongue was warm upon me. I raked my fingers through his hair whilst he completed the task to which he was charged. “Oh, but it’s welcome.”

“We’ve not much time left,” he explained. The impish grin upon his face as he reverently kissed my stomach told a different story, however, and I was unable to resist the urge to draw him up to taste myself upon his tongue. We laid together, calming each other with caresses of our fingertips, and I must have slept, because the last that I recall was the comfort of James’s warmth against me. He had been kind enough to dress me, so that when I awoke, nothing would seem amiss to anyone else in the infantry.


	4. Chapter 4

Rain had been falling in sheets for days, and we had all stood watch in the mud of the trenches through the worst of it. It was a blessed reprieve when we were called to rest, and James and I had already decided, without speaking a word to the subject, that I would spend a significant portion of that evening in his bed.

The drops beat loudly against the canvas that night, but the tent was dry inside, and underneath the sheets, James was nestled between my thighs, bestowing pleasure upon me with his lips and tongue with an attention that could only be described as reverent. The ebb and flow of my body’s desire for release had already begun to clash closer together, and we were far more cavalier than usual, the rain’s din enough to cover our voices as I pled for more and he moaned around the length of me.

What seemed to be a boon to us would prove to be our downfall. Footsteps were masked completely by the roll of thunder, and I was taken aback utterly when Lieutenant Perry, soaked to the marrow, flung open the flap to James’s tent. “Major Sholto! Come quickly! We can’t find..” His eyes became as saucers as he was met with the sight of our coupling. “Captain Watson,” he finished. I had been found. Lieutenant Perry turned his back to afford us a modesty that we didn’t deserve. “Make haste to the CCS,” he instructed. “It’s Pearson.” He wasted not a moment in leaving, a palpable silence hanging in the air despite the rainfall and dull thunder crashing in the distance.

It was common knowledge that the danger of infection on the battlefield was a high risk to those with injury. What I saw upon my entrance into the CCS and advancement to Pearson’s bed, however, made my stomach turn. I knew upon laying eyes on him that he would be dead in moments. He was surrounded by our platoon, and he was pale, a fever upon him and sweat so profusely pouring from his pores that his pillow was damp from it, and his bedclothes clung to his wasted body.

“Alright, Pearson?” My own appearance was disheveled, though I could think nothing of it; the pallor of death was upon him. The other soldiers looked anxiously amongst one another, and their knowledge of my whereabouts was obvious.

Pearson trembled even as he nodded. “Just a cold,” he answered. “Bloody rain’s done me in, I’m afraid.”

“It’ll pass,” I said. This was the way of accepting death. For those noble enough to die in battle, it was only proper to provide brotherhood in a soldier’s final moments, and so I stood, and I took Pearson’s hand. I only ventured the hastiest of glances to James, and I refused to look at the others. “Probably another day or two.”

“Thank you, John,” he said, and the righteous bastard had the cheek to smile at me. “You saved my life, you know.”

I hadn’t. “Just doing my job. You rest now. I need you back in the trenches to keep watch over my arse. And besides, you know that Williams is useless,” I added. I had become adept at injecting humour in moments such as these. Never had I been present for one in which I was so certain that the outcome would be the adverse of what reality presented. Pearson wasn’t meant to die. He had made it alive, albeit with one less limb. It wasn’t meant to be like this.

Pearson nodded. “Yes, well,” he answered. “I’ll just.. s’fine.. in the orchard..” His mind had succumbed to the fever. No one spoke a word.

Pearson died surrounded by his brothers in arms that night. The rest of the infantry held a wake, as was custom, in the grand gesture of drink and tobacco and stories of his character. I excused myself to my tent, to be alone. I took an entire jar of SRD for myself for the evening.


	5. Chapter 5

“You’ve been assigned to what?” My ears must have been deceiving me. I had spent four days of rest in various states of inebriation, and I cursed the fact now, as James stood before me in my tent to deliver what must have been erroneous news.

“It’s routine.”

“I don’t bloody care!” My blood boiled in my veins as James confirmed that which I found to be unthinkable. It wasn’t a particularly dangerous mission, and he was quite correct – it was routine for a Major to lead a group of cadets into battle when the call to arms was given. “You’ve already done it once. The purpose has been served.” I took a swig from the only jar left in my tent with any of the foul rum left in it. “Who was it?” I stood, and it was then that my inebriation made itself fully known to me as I swayed to catch my own balance. “Who made the order?”

“John. You know who. You know why.” Of course I did. I knew precisely who was responsible. “We knew that this was a risk.”

“How dare you stand in front of me and spout platitudes as if you’re some sort of sanctimonious martyr! I must say that you were rather happy to ignore the risks prior to being caught for them.” My body ached, and my heart pinched. “Did you even fight for me?”

The look upon James’s face was impossible to take in. My condition pained him to witness, and he didn’t see fit to hide the fact from me. “You know I did.”

“Then why do you have to leave?” It was a question that didn’t need answering. Just as I had known that Pearson would no longer draw breath once I looked upon his pallor, I knew that I would not see James Sholto again until this cursed war was over. As if to ease the pain of it, my mind began spinning with possibilities.  “Once it’s done,” I said. “We can go to London. We can live together and be companions. Once the war is done.” I ignored how my hand trembled as I took James’s and relied upon its strength.

James nodded. “This is routine, John. And then it’ll be done. I’ll be assigned elsewhere.. I can write you. Once it’s done.. then we can be together. Alright, John? I can promise you that.”

“Don’t.” My eyes began to itch as tears threatened to form. I no longer cared about appearances. “Don’t you dare make a promise like that. This isn’t Pearson. This isn’t over. This isn’t empty.”

“It’s not.” James squeezed my hand, and then he drew me close to him to embrace me. I felt boneless. “I promise you, it’s not. You have my word as a soldier. You have my word as your companion.”

I inhaled sharply to steel my nerves. “I suppose that I should be grateful that your assignment isn’t particularly dangerous.”

“There’s Captain Watson,” James said, a smile in his voice, though it didn’t reach his visage. He cupped my chin in his hand and lifted my face to look tenderly upon it. “It will be alright. It will be well. And then.. once it’s done.” He offered one final nod, a punctuation to our proposal.

“James. James, I..” I was robbed of my speech as James shook his head.

“Not yet. You can tell me later. Once our countries have found peace, and we can tell each other properly.” I nodded. That was the way of it. James and I were to be separated. We were to fight the remainder of the war apart. My disposition on the matter, I rationalised, would have to remain positive. I knew that as long as I kept an optimistic perspective, I wouldn’t be too ruined from the war by the time it was over, and James would still desire me.

* * *

 

The tale of the ambush gone awry had been circulated to me even as I rallied from a bullet wound in a London infirmary after my own discharge. And so it was that I accepted that James Sholto, the love of my life, the one man who had ever truly made a difference, would never be in it again. My purpose had been truly lost. Depression gripped me, and even after I had finished my convalescence, I had no aim, no employ, and nowhere to live in any sustainable sense. I was simply a shell of myself. I had no identity left to speak of.

That was, of course, before I was introduced to Sherlock Holmes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks.

_1926, London._

It was my wedding day when I looked upon the Major’s wounds for the first time. His face was badly scarred, but those eyes were as kind and warm and piercing as I remembered. I found that I didn’t quite know what to say in his grandiose presence, and so we exchanged pleasantries as if we were simply acquaintances. Finally, after a moment of silence in which we seemed to be grasping for the right, true final words, James was the first to speak.

“And she makes you happy?” I smiled. I knew in my heart what James was truly asking. Did Mary Morstan make me happy? Did Sherlock Holmes? Was any of it comparable to the closeness that we had shared in the trenches of war, in the hushed darkness in our tents, in the dreams that we had held onto together before reality made such flights of fancy impossible?

James glanced at Holmes and Mary, and his expression became amused. “It must be quite the compliment to you,” he observed. “Two such people experiencing the love of John Watson.”

“I suppose you’re right,” I said, and, knowing that it would be my last true opportunity, I didn’t dare take my eyes off of James’s face, still perfect to my heart despite its disfigurement. “But really, neither of them were the first.”

“Quite right, Watson,” said Sholto, and he gave one last nod before finding his place at one of the many reception tables.

 

* * *

 

I have documented my adventures with my current companion in other volumes, and perhaps I’ll write more upon it someday; I can only imagine that a grand adventure such as entering a life of marriage to Mary Morstan will only yield more captivating chapters in a life well-lived. Those, however, are the stories of Dr. John H. Watson, husband to Mary Watson, life-long companion and partner to Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective. This story, however - the story of Captain John Watson, RAMC, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers - is finished.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for fleetwood_mouse for the 2015 Holmestice Summer Challenge! I hope that she enjoys it.
> 
> A few notes: 
> 
> I have never read a Jolto fic. I have never written a Jolto fic. I don't know a lot about warfare or the military, nor am I well-versed in WWI history. So, basically, uh, I was waaaay out of my comfort zone, and I hope that this is okay and that fleetwood_mouse enjoys this nonetheless!
> 
> The title of this fic was inspired by the song "The Soldiering Life" by The Decemberists. In fact, the entire fic was inspired by this song, and there are a couple of homages to it within the fic. It is definitely required listening, just sayin'.
> 
> This would not have been possible without the scrutiny of Megan (learntitonyoutube), without whose fantastic beta skills I would have never made this happen. Thanks, Megan! I was so alone, and I owe you so much.


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